Diablo Day

It was a tough three days on South Padre. Traveling a couple thousand miles for a virtual skunking puts a man to mumbling to himself. But the worst part was not that we struggled to find fish; it was that the conditions didn't allow us to spend enough time with the Diablos.

I was first introduced to Diablo Paddlesport's fine fleet of fishing kayaks a couple of years ago on the northern Laguna Madre. Thomas Flemons, co-owner of Diablo, towed a fleet of his boats out to a remote cabin outside of Baffin Bay where a handful of us gathered to spend a few days chasing redfish. I quickly fell in love with the Adios.

Diablo's craft are a hybrid of kayak and stand-up paddleboard, "thinner and wider, like a SUP board, but still has all the comforts, such as dry storage, wet storage, paddle and drink holders as well as a comfortable seat." I happily paddled about the salt flats, cruising for tailers, staking the boat out and wading when I wished. It was a couple of very good days.

Fast forward two years and I found myself back on the Laguna, this time further south, and was thrilled when Brandon arrived with a trailer of boats - his green Diablo Chupacabra and a couple of the new roto-molded Amigos. And not just any Amigos. Thomas's personal craft, complete with a couple of prototype accessories for us to fiddle with.

The plan was to paddle the flats as we had two years before, but the wind had other ideas. Blowing a steady 20 knots out of the south, it chopped the water severely making sight fishing impossible and paddling a challenge, even with the low-riding, sculpted Adios.

We did get a morning in, paddling around the waters just north of South Padre, and reacquainted ourselves with these sleek, sturdy craft that floated easily in a couple of inches of water. They were as good as I remembered.

I just wish that we could have done more.

Note: A huge thanks to Thomas Flemons for the loan of the craft. Diablo sits at the top of my list of personal fishing boats and I look forward to their continued evolution and success. If you're thinking of getting into a kayak, this is the place to start looking.

A Walk in the Dunes

Mark Twain has been credited with calling golf a "good walk spoiled." Seems, now, that he didn't actually say it, but he should have.

Similarly, our sojourn across the dunes at the Padre Island National Seashore was a good walk spoiled by the absence of redfish, but the company and the place more than made up for it.

Enjoy.

Where the Redfish Are

Can you keep a secret?

It's always good to get the skinny from the locals - to get the inside poop on where to fish in an area that's new to you. And whether it comes in the form of a GPS coordinate, the description of a landmark, or a scribble on a bar napkin or hotel scratchpad, it's welcome insight. There's a lot of water out there, particularly when you're searching the salt, and it's nice to have a clue where to start.

So just between you and me, here's where to find the reds in South Padre, shared in confidence with us by Shane Wilson, founder of Fishing's Future, SPI resident, and all-round good guy.

Keep it to yourself.

The Jetty

When you get blown off the water you’re forced to get creative. After months of anticipation, our first day’s disappointment at being unable to sight fish the wind-chopped flats could only be overcome with a little initiative and a serious reduction in standards.

“Let’s go to the jetty.”

We hemmed and we hawed for a moment or two until Chris free associated the possibility of finding migrating tarpon and, with that pretty delusion as quixotic motivation, we jumped in the jeep and drove south.

Our lofty ambitions of bowing to tail-walking kings from majestic rocky positions (as waves crashed dramatically with each silver leap) quickly degenerated into attempting to snag sea slugs as they drifted past on the outgoing tides.

We fishermen are nothing if not flexible.

Off the Ground

Happy New Year!

Yeah. I know. Two weeks ago. But things have gotten off to a slow start around here. We came home from holiday travels with a three-week creeping coughing crud and the Dixie temps have tumbled ridiculously into the single digits, freezing our ambition into inert little cubes that are just now beginning to thaw. So, for us, 2014's just getting going.

And key to getting it going is getting back on the water. This year, instead of my traditional annual kickoff wade in some chilly Appalachian trout stream, I wandered east to find a warm coastal breeze and to wave a 7wt at a few North Carolina puppy drum. (I usually call them redfish, but the locals refer to them as drum and consider anyone using the 'r' word a bit prissy; just a half-step above those twice-a-year visiting Salt Lifers.) Whatever you call them, we put a couple of nice ones into the skiff along with a passel of rats and a spec or three. More importantly, we got the fishing year rolling with brilliant barrier island skies, silky smooth salt creeks, and stunning southern sunsets.

So bear with me as I shake off the chill and begin to warm things up around here once again. It should be an interesting year to come, so have a little patience. We'll get rolling in earnest soon.



Rolling, now that 2014'a finally off the ground and onto the water.

Happy not-so-New Year!

Direction Is Everything

Eight to twelve knots.

Not a particularly harsh wind, here on the Crystal Coast, except when coming dead straight from the west, giving it thirty uninterrupted miles to plow deep furrows in the emerald seas along these south-facing barrier islands, Onslow Bay to the Lookout Bight.

Direction is everything.

So we idled in the inlet channel, protected, a bit, from the churn by the distant confederate brick, stone, and barrier sands of Fort Macon, and we waited. Waited for the breeze to shift, if even a few degrees. Waited for the tide to change in hopes that it might smooth the ceaseless six-foot ditches dug into the brine and let us go chase some albies. Waited as boats full of anxious fishermen with similar motives motored out the buoy chain, then shortly motored back; captains grim-faced, sports thoroughly shaken.

Waited as the radio crackled a constant refrain; heavy seas and no fish to be found.

We waited because we saw no need in going out to get beaten up until there was a hint of something worth getting beaten up over. It never came. No albies for us, this fine Sunday. No albies for anyone.

But there are worse starts to a day than idling these sweet southern waters and watching the sun rise. Worse places to be skunked than outside the lazy docks and quaint streets of Beaufort. Worse ways to misplace a bright fall weekend, the coming and the going for a paltry couple of hours bobbing like corks.

And as an early return is always appreciated, by both the wanderer and she who keeps the home fires burning, I packed it in and headed back before noon. Back towards my safe harbor. Back towards my shield from the winds. Back towards where my real happiness waits. Dead straight to the west.

Direction is everything.

Spring Tide

The sun and the moon aligned, but, sadly, the stars did not.

This week’s spring tide - the exaggerated tidal ebbs and flows caused when sun and moon fall in line and compound gravitational forces - pushed waters higher into some of our favorite grass flats than they'd been all year. We waded those tufted edges, along seldom-submerged wildlife trails, chased clattering crabs in all directions, and hoped for some solid chances at tailing reds.

It wasn’t to be.

The one good fish we saw slipped away as Troy and I stubbornly politely insisted that the other take the first shot. We were idiots, though well intentioned, and a subsequent opportunity never materialized.

But a weekday spent walkin’ shin-deep salt waters, even with a pre-dawn start, beats the bejeezus out of one spent doing most anything else, fish or no, so there’s no complaining here.

We just need to work on them stars.

And our manners.

Bye Bye to Bones and a Few Thanks

It’s been three weeks since I stepped off the plane back here in RDU, completing an eleven day round trip between home and the flats. Yesterday I shook the last grains of Bahamian beach sand from my Keens and today notions of bass and trout finally began to creep back into my brain.

I guess it’s really over.

It probably would have happened sooner had it not been for the recent spate of crap conditions keeping me off the water here in the southeast; storms, flooding, insane generation schedules driven by an insatiable need for air-conditioning. How did mankind survive before the advent of the condenser?

Anyway, I’ve channeled the tropical vibe long enough. Tried to share the island sun as much as I could. Hope that you felt it, warm on your face, but it’s time to move on. It's time to shake off that out island rhythm and get back to normal, at least for a while.

So, to wrap it all up, a few thanks...

...to Pinky for the kind invitation and unbelievable hospitality at the Long Island Bonefishing Lodge. The out islands are a joy and Pinky's outpost is a bonefishing destination to savor. All the comforts of home, miles of flats to explore, and all of the guided support you might want - or none if you prefer. DIY the right way.

...to Darlene for being the heart of the lodge. From her warm smile in the morning to her divine conch fritters to her delightful grandchildren, she kept a light mood throughout the house, making us all feel right at home. Did I mention the conch fritters?

...to Markk for some mighty fine days on the flats and the single best piece of fishing advice we received all week:

Leave the barracudas alone!

...to the Coral Harbour Beach Villas for letting us crash in their beach house for a couple of days as we wandered the back channels of Nassau, finding bonefish in the unlikeliest of places and New Providence peace off the back deck.

...to my homeboy Tbone for the boxful of flies that carried the day, every day, on this trip.

...to my bonefish-brained blog buddy Bjorn for all his advise and the shrimp pattern that brought the biggest fish of the trip to hand, almost.

...and, of course, to Sam, Marc, Chris. Couldn't have asked for a better crew to share an island with.

Let's do it again sometime. I'm hooked.

The Moments We Remember

The radios crackle in synch with the skyline.

Get back to the boat, boys. We gotta get outta here.
Yeah, I don’t like the looks of that lightning.
Not the lightning, mon. The darkness. We need to get off the flats while we can still see the bottom.
Huh? You know this place like the back of your hand, Pinky.
Sandbars, Mike. They move.

Point taken. We turn and we race, Sam and I, as much as one can in shin-deep chop, the three-hundred yards to the skiff, dragging the rod tips in our wake. Pinky might not be sweating the lightning just yet, but, as the highest two points on these flats, we don't feel the need to add another nine feet. There’s enough of a charge running down our spines already.

These are the moments we remember. Sure, the thrill of the catch is what those back at home think that we’re chasing, but it’s more. It’s the rush. It’s the feeling of riding the thin edge of control. It’s the realization that you’ve pushed it as far as you should, and maybe then pushed it a little bit more.

It’s watching a big ‘cuda slide by, close, as you wade ass-deep, resurrecting every adventure article you read as a boy suggesting who’s really the king of the flats, then impulsively putting a fly on his nose, only to watch him confirm that reputation, leaving shredded mono, visions of razors, and questions of sanity in its wake.

It’s tip-toeing to the edge of a bottomless blue hole and considering swimming across.

It’s hearing Pinky transmit Bones on your three, coming fast. Two cruisers behind. If they show interest in your fish, crank the drag. Break it off. And if they show interest in you, throw a handful of bottom their way.

Throwing mud at sharks. Unconvincing.

It’s finding one of those migrating sandbars and, with the rain lashing down and salt spray in your face, jumping off and dragging the skiff to deeper waters; eyes on the horizon, adrenaline pumping, heart rising to your throat, and a big, albeit nervous, grin on your face.

Yeah, these are the moments we remember.

Maybe A Sink Tip Would Help